The Winning Stroke (10 page)

“
All right, swimmers, on your mark!”

Jerry's toes clenched over the edge of the block. He stood there with his feet a few inches apart, his legs bent slightly
at the knees. His arms were extended backward, with the palms turned upward.

“
Get set!
”

He leaned forward, ready to make his plunge.

BANG!

Jerry pushed off and forward at the same time. His arms swung in front of him as he entered the water a few inches below the
surface.

The minute he felt the sensation of cold liquid on his fingertips, he put all his training into effect and began the six-beat
crawl at a steady pace.

Then a loud whistle shrieked, and he knew right away that something was wrong. Someone had false-started.

The whistle kept blowing. The six swimmers stopped and returned to the starting position.

He glanced over at his folks in the stand. Someone seated next to them was explaining what had happened.

I guess they didn't expect a false start, thought Jerry. Neither did I. At least no one is pointing the finger at me.

But it took a little of the wind out of his sails. The next time the starting gun was fired, there was just a little less
spring in his dive. Still, he hit the water cleanly and began to work his way down his lane for the first of the twenty laps
it would take to complete the five hundred.

Arm over arm, stroke after stroke, he reached forward and sliced his way through the water. He tried to keep his breathing
as regular as his strokes, turning his head under the water to exhale through his nose with each lap.

Nice and steady, he said to himself during the first five laps. Keep your mind on what you're doing. Reach ahead toward the
end of the lane. Never mind what's going on at either side.

Still, there was no way he could miss the stroke-for-stroke splashes that accompanied him back and forth. It seemed as though
the swimmer in the lane next to him was gaining a little after the third lap.

As Jerry made his fifth turn to start the sixth lap, he knew that the race was one-fourth over. It was
time for him to increase his effort a little bit to make sure he wasn't falling behind. So, keeping the same rhythm between
his arm strokes and his kicking, he speeded up both ever so slightly.

The swimmer on his side was just about a stroke ahead of him. Still, Jerry knew that he had to keep swimming exactly as he
was, to conserve some energy for the last big push.

“
As we approach the halfway mark, with ten laps to go, the leader is Silvio Repucci in lane five by just half a stroke
—”

Hey, I must be right behind the leader, thought Jerry. I'm in second place and the race isn't half over yet.

“
Coming on strong in lane two, however, is Ace Willoughby in second place
—”

Not quite second, I guess, Jerry realized. The disappointment caused him to break his stride for a second, but he quickly
recovered.

“
And making a big push for third place, it looks like a tie so far between Paul Prescott and Jerry Grayson.”

All right, it wasn't over yet.

Just before he reached the edge of the pool for his
tenth turn, he saw Tony crouched down holding a cardboard sign marked with a big “10” under the water for him to see. Without
wasting time staring, Jerry could tell that Tony was right there cheering him on.

Second half, time to put on some more pressure. Jerry felt like he had a gearshift inside him, just like the one his dad had
in his car. He'd been in first and second gear, and it was time to move into third.

Now, at each turn, at the opposite end of the pool from where the race had started, there were lap signs waiting for him.
He noticed that Wayne held the fourteenth lap sign and Lars the fifteenth. Coach Fulton wanted his swimmers to know the whole
team was with them.

Only five laps to go, thought Jerry. Here's where I really have to make the final push. Okay, fourth gear, here we come. He
pushed off extra hard, pleased to see that both legs were still holding up fine. There was no sign that his right leg was
any the worse for the pressure of the long-distance race.

“
With just three laps to go, only seventy-five yards left in this race, it looks like Ace Willoughby in lane two by four strokes;
making a strong push, however
is Danny Chang in lane three; Silvio Reppuci, the early leader, has dropped down to third place; and trailing him by a—well,
about a nose—is newcomer Jerry Grayson
.”

Fourth! He wasn't going to settle for that. He'd show them. He'd pour it on and take—well, he certainly wanted to end up in
one of the top three spots. He knew he could do it.

Tony was back holding up the sign that told him it was the eighteenth lap. Jerry saw him, then rushed into his turn. He barely
finished his somersault before he started to twist back into crawl position. His push-off from the wall was awkward, and he
knew that he'd lost a few seconds and distance behind the leaders.

The only way to make up for it was to swim full out for both of the last laps, instead of sprinting in just the twentieth.

Jerry went for it.

11

The flip-flops in Jerry's stomach had long since disappeared. They were now replaced with a burning sensation down in his
chest. He tried to draw the air in rapidly and let it out at the exact time his head went below the water's surface. But as
he stretched his arms overhead to make his way swiftly through the water, his breathing became more and more of a challenge.

The water, too, seemed to have changed. When the race began, the light, clear fluid had offered little resistance. Now it
seemed to be more like thick, tough, gray motor oil that dragged down his arms as he made his way down the final two laps.

At this point, the announcer's voice was drowned out by the shouting from the stands. He heard his name and all the others
amid the whistles,
cheers, and general noise that floated above his head.

Every muscle in his body strained to propel him forward—and every one of those muscles cried out in pain as they were stretched
to their utmost limit.

And then it was over.

The fingers of his outstretched right hand touched the edge of the pool, just below the watchful eyes of a judge with a clipboard.

Jerry couldn't tell whether he had come in first, second, or third—but he knew he wasn't last. As he lifted his body up from
the water, he could tell that the swimmer in lane one, Flash Gordon, had trailed him by at least half a lap and was just now
finishing.

Well, at least I wasn't a complete bust, Jerry thought, as he stood there with his chest pounding, trying to cool off.

There was still so much noise and cheering, no one seemed to know how the race had turned out. Jerry made his way out of the
pool and over to the Blues bench, where his teammates had gathered around its three contenders.

“There's some sort of a problem, I think,” said
Tony, wrapping a towel around Jerry. “But you did great. You should be real pleased.”

“
Attention, please
,” came the announcer's voice. “
We have a disqualification in the five hundred boys freestyle. For failure to make contact properly at the end of a lap, the
swimmer in lane five has been disqualified. The winner of the five-hundred-yard freestyle was Paul Prescott of the Bolton
Blues!
”

The Bolton bench and fans exploded into loud cheering.

“
In second place, was Danny Chang in lane three
.”

This time, the Clapham bench led the cheering.

“
And in third place, was lane two, Ace Willoughby, followed by lane six, Jerry Grayson, and lane one, Flash Gordon
.”

Everyone now applauded briefly as the meet continued.

Jerry stood there numb with disappointment.

Fourth! And it could have been worse. Silvio was ahead of me most of the race. If he hadn't been disqualified, I might have
come in fifth! Maybe that Gordon kid had a cramp, or I wouldn't have even
beaten him. Who am I kidding? I shouldn't have been in this race, he thought.

Coach Fulton had congratulated Paul and Ace. He made his way over to Jerry, who had clutched the towel around him and was
trying to bury his face in its folds.

The coach reached forward, found his hand, and forced a handshake out of the reluctant swimmer.

“Jerry, you should be pleased with yourself. I had my doubts about putting you in, but I'm not in the least sorry that I did,”
he said.

“You're not?” Jerry asked. “Even though I didn't do that well, I mean, fourth.”

“I have my own standards, Jerry,” said the coach. “At this point, standings shouldn't matter to you so much. You have to learn
to evaluate your own performance against how well you know you can do. That's what counts.”

“I guess you're right, Coach,” Jerry said.

“So you made a few mistakes,” said the coach. “You can learn to correct them and do better next time.”

Next time. Those two words lifted Jerry's spirits a little. But mistakes? What had he done wrong?

It looked as though the coach had read his mind. “Don't worry,” he said. “We'll go over everything in practice. Let's just
watch, the rest of the meet.”

But Jerry itched to know where he had messed up. He squeezed in next to Tony on the bench and said, “Hey, Tony, I was wondering—”

But Tony held him off. “Look, Jerry, I'm swimming the backstroke in the one-hundred-yard medley relay. I have to concentrate.”

Jerry could tell that he'd get nowhere asking anyone else while the meet was still taking place. He decided to hold off.

When it was over, the Blues had won another competition by a wide margin. The whole team was in great spirits as they left
the locker room. Jerry tried to act cheerful, but he wasn't looking forward to seeing his family outside. He slung his gym
bag over his shoulder and trailed the others into the fresh air.

“Way to go!” said Mr. Grayson, hugging him around the shoulder right away.

“You were terrific,” agreed Mrs. Grayson, kissing him on the cheek.

Even Lucie seemed proud of him. She hugged his
leg and said, “I saw you swimming back and forth for a long time. Weren't you tired?”

Jerry smiled at her and nodded. “A lot,” he said.

David gave him a friendly punch on the arm and said, “I was worried when you didn't swim in the events you were supposed to.
But then I figured the coach was saving you for something special. The five hundred, wow!”

The whole family was so happy for him, Jerry couldn't let them know how disappointed he was in how he had finished. Fourth
place. It still stuck in his throat. But he felt he had to say something about it.

“I …I just wish I'd ended up better,” he said softly.

“Hah! You've done a lot worse,” said David right off. “Remember when you struck out three times in that Little League playoff
game?”

“Or the time you threw your mitt instead of the ball in the game with the Plattstown Panthers?” said his mother, with a big
smile.

His father started laughing. “I think the funniest was when you swung the bat so hard you got in a twist and ended up almost
knocking yourself out.”

At the memory of that particular goofy move, even
Jerry couldn't keep from laughing. The whole family was still chuckling as they made their way to the car.

“Mom, I'll have my dessert later,” said Jerry. “Tony and Tanya are coming over. If there's any pie left, is it okay if I give
them some?”

“Of course,” she answered. “And if David doesn't make a pig of himself, there will be some left over.”

“Oink,” said David.

“Never mind,” said Mr. Grayson. “You and Lucie put these dishes in the dishwasher. And when you're through, come on in to
the living room. We'll leave the kitchen for Jerry and his friends.”

Briiing!

The doorbell announced the arrival of Tanya, who had a small container of vanilla ice cream.

“I thought we could have a treat,” she said. “To celebrate your first five hundred.”

“Great,” said Jerry. “We have some pie to go with it.” Before he could tell her he didn't think his performance in the five
hundred was much to rave about, Tony arrived.